


Kingship

by Rhiw



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bilbo Baggins is Royalty, Bilbo Baggins is the Thain, Bilbo is Bilbo, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves in the Shire, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Like, M/M, Protective Thorin, Slow Burn, Thain Bilbo Baggins - Freeform, Thorin relates to Bilbo viscerally given their kingships, Thorin saves Bilbo, Young Bilbo Baggins, because Bilbo is a child when they first meet, hobbit politics, hobbits being hobbits, super slow burn, the fell winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-11 23:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19936390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiw/pseuds/Rhiw
Summary: As the winter grew longer, Thorin Oakenshield finds himself striking out early from the Blue Mountains in the search of work to feed his kin. As he traverses the Great East Road, Thorin and his Company stumble upon a violent wolf attack - and save the life of the Shire's young Thain.





	1. The Young Thain, Part 1

The winter had been harsh, far harsher than any Thorin could remember. Even that first winter after the fall of Erebor, when his people had been wandering homeless and penniless, forced to shelter in the wilds or what home they could carve or build, compared to this one. There were even talks that it was the beginnings of another fell winter and it had forced Thorin out of the Ered Luin in search of work. Normally, Thorin wintered with his family, spending the time with his nephews and little Gimli, the youngest of their clan. Through the majority of the year Thorin wandered to the west looking for work and prayed it would be enough to see his family through for another year.

While Thorin wished he could look after his people as a whole, he’d found early on that he had his hands full with just keeping a roof over his direct line’s head. Though the royal line of Durin numbered under twenty now compared to the nearly fifty it had before Erebor had fallen, it was still a challenging feat. Especially considering the poor welcome they’d been given in Ered Luin. In his more generous moments, Thorin could admit to himself that the Dwarves who scraped out a living there were hardly able to keep their own clans fed and cared for, much less take on more mouths to feed.

The Dwarf that had been a crowned prince of their greatest kingdom burned with fury over it.

He traveled down the Great East Road now, inside the proper boundaries of the Shire. It was a land that Thorin rarely saw in winter and it was almost jarring to see what was normally rolling hills of emerald grass and fields of golden flax and wheat blanketed by white. Even more alarming was the utter silence. Though the hour was only just closing in on mid-evening, there had not been a soul about; even Michel Delving had been silent and still, every window shuttered tight.

After some discussion with his cousins it had been decided that Thorin and a small company – no more than ten Dwarves including himself and Dwalin (Balin had stayed behind, as had Glóin and Óin, as Kíli had developed a stubborn cold that would not leave him) would go to Bree and see if there was work to be found, either in smithy-work or as a hired sword. Though it was not spoken out loud, there was the general understanding that they would take _any_ work that they could. If there was none to be found in Bree, they would strike further west. Thorin hoped to avoid this, wanting to remain as close to Ered Luin as possible.

Outside of Dwalin, who was Thorin’s cousin, and Víli, his sister’s husband, Thorin knew none of the Dwarves who had struck out with them. But both Balin and Dwalin had handpicked them, and that was enough for Thorin’s confidences. They were some fifteen miles from Michel Delving when they heard the first wolf howls. His company had drawn close together, weapons loosened and ready, and their lead – a sturdy Dwarf named Bifur – doused their lantern.

It was only when they heard the shrill screaming moments later that their steady gait failed them. Thorin hesitated for only a moment before launching himself into a sprint, Dwalin and his company only a few steps behind. They rounded a gentle bend, one of the sloping mounds that littered the East Fathering, and Thorin felt his feet fly even faster when they came upon fallen packs and goods. When they completed the corner, they found carnage waiting for them. Hobbits were weak creatures, known for very little outside of their ability to farm, and they had little hope to defend themselves from most attacks, much less those of the beasts that beset them now. They were wolves, larger than any Thorin had seen before, and as stark white in fur as the snow upon them.

Bodies of the dead lay upon the cobblestones, five in the bright blue padded jacks that spoke of the Bounders of the Watch – the police force that minded the Shire’s boundaries. Thorin had some dealings with them in the past, mainly just to navigate or negotiate his people’s travels through their bounds of the Shire proper. There were a handful of other bodies though and they bore nothing about them that spoke of being members of the Watch. One was even a woman, her curly hair haloed by a spray of sickly red.

A handful of Hobbits still lived though, a line of Bounders hardly seven strong, circled around something, their spears batting out uselessly, trying to keep the wolves away. Thorin charged forward without hesitation, his Dwarves following just behind his steps. Faced with the superior steel and training of Dwarves, even only ten, sent the wolf pack fleeing into the silent night – though only after Dwalin cut down one of their own. For a moment silence reigned, interrupted only by the harsh pants of the Dwarves and the Hobbits behind them. Then – a cry, high pitched and hopeless, and Thorin turned just in time to see a small figure dart out from the circle of the Bounders.

The Bounders gave a shout, one leaping out to try and grab the lad. But the boy was agile though, ducking from the grasping hands and flying down the path and towards Thorin, his cloak flaring out like wings behind him. The boy dropped to his knees next to one of the bodies by Thorin's company, hands hovering over it, afraid to touch. Thorin felt his heart go out to the boy, sheathing his sword even as he kept a weary eye out on the landscape around them.

“Papa…” The boy whispered, eyes wide. Though he appeared to be in his maturing years, his chin was bare and still held onto some of the curving rounds of childhood, and though it was always hard to tell with Hobbits and Men (as they aged so much quicker than his own kind) Thorin placed him as very young. His head was a wealth of curls, a brunet that seemed nearly black in the dim lights of the lanterns. His quivering hands lowered, ready to touch –

“No, lad.” Víli corrected, voice gentler than Thorin had ever heard it, and the hands froze once more. The boy looked up at them, eyes wide and glossy with tears, and the grey of the rabbit fur of his hood made his skin seem pale. One of the Bounders hurried over, face distraught.

“Forgive the presumption, sir,” the Hobbit said, voice low, and pulled the boy away bodily, “come now, sir, come now.”

The lad stood on legs as shakily as a newborn fawn and turned to hide his face in the Bounder’s chest, clinging tightly. Another Hobbit had leaned down, fingers checking the body’s neck for a pulse Thorin highly doubted that anyone believed was there. The Bounder leaned back on his heels, face drawn and exhausted.

“He's dead,” the Hobbit said, tone mournful, his hand reaching up to slowly pull his hood down. This announcement seemed to stun the remaining Bounders, who all stood in a drawn silence. Then, one by one, they reached up to pull their hoods down, and the woolen caps they wore underneath them as well.

“Then…” The Hobbit holding the boy said gravely, looking close to tears himself, and in an unaccountably cruel move, pulled the boy from his chest, taking a decisive step back. The boy stared up at him, his face the image of confused betrayal. “Long live the Thain.”

The boy stiffened as if he was struck, then swirled about, his cloak floating briefly about him like a gown before settling. The boy’s lips parted, his chest heaving in shallow breathes as his eyes stared about him, and Thorin followed his gaze; the Hobbits that had encircled them bowed their heads low, shoulders hunched and small. His dark eyes flickered to Thorin’s and held there. Time seemed to still under the weight of that horrified gaze and in that moment, Thorin felt closer to the young boy then he had any other, even that of his own sister. He willed the lad strength, for he knew all too well what it was to have kingship thrown upon unready shoulders, head dipping minutely in acknowledgement. The boy’s lips closed, quivering slightly, before his features went still, remote.

“I owe you a great debt, master Dwarf, and my thanks.” Thorin felt his respect for the lad rise at the solidness of his voice, “could I ask for another favor? I can't leave them here to be eaten, though I don't think its safe to leave anyone behind to carry them. Will you help me bring them home?”

“Aye, I will see it done.” Thorin said and the sound of his voice surprised even himself, and made both Víli and Dwalin glance at him in surprise, because it was a voice he had rarely heard himself speak without outside of Erebor.

“Thank you, truely. I am Bilbo Baggins,” there was a pause, a rough swallow, “Thain of the Shire.”

* * *

In the end, with the night growing later, they divided their numbers. Víli and five of their men elected to stay behind with half the remaining Bounders to see the bodies to safety, while Thorin, Dwalin, and the rest accompanied the Hobbits back to their home. While the hobbit-hole they were lead to, Bag End, was no palace compared to the likes that had birthed Thorin, it was still quite impressive. It was warm and well lit inside, decorated heavily with carved wood and embroidered textiles, fine masonry and ceramics. Thorin found himself accepting tea in the sitting room, a fire burning brightly, while awaited the arrival of the rest of his men. The lad, Bilbo Baggins, had almost immediately excused himself to his room. It was almost surreal, to be sipping honeyed tea out of delicate china cups while Hobbits moved about the room, covering mirrors and carefully winding black ribbons over portraits. Thorin did not know what to take of the hospitality he and his men were offered with. Because the death of the previous Thain - Bungo Baggins - had clearly thrown the Hobbits around them into chaos, yet they were careful to offer food and other comforts to them, their tea cups hardly ever having a moment to run dry before refilling.

They had been offered payment for their actions by a stern looking, elderly Hobbit who had arrived shortly after they had, but Thorin denied it. No Dwarf would take a funeral payment when it was not due. The Hobbit, Fortinbras the Second, standing Master of the Tooklands, had been insistent that some form of payment be paid though, and with the night growing as late and cold as it was, Thorin accepted the offer of shelter for him and his company. Even more Hobbits were arriving, their faces drawn and tight in the way that only kin showed after a death, and Thorin was quite relieved when Víli and the rest of his Dwarves arrived and they could excuse themselves. They were led down winding and surprisingly spacious tunnels further into the hill and shown to impressive guest rooms.

It had been a grim night, grimmer than any that Thorin could have expected when he set out on his journey, and he found no sleep to welcome him. He rose when the dawn’s pale light brightened his room, already dressed for the day, and made his way back up to the main rooms. He could hear heavy conversation from behind one of the thick, round doors as he passed, but Thorin was surprised to find the hobbit-hole mostly empty. There was neither maid nor butler to guide him, save for a Bounder who was sitting up in one of the living rooms. At Thorin’s question he directed him towards the back door.

Thorin couldn’t quite help the sharp gasp of air when the winter air struck him, rolling his shoulders so that his heavy coat settled firmer around his neck and shoulders. He had only just lit his pipe, taking the first inhales of the morning, when he caught sight of the figure standing quietly. The pipe froze on his lips, brows drawing together. The Thain stood on the very edge of the backyard, where the flattened slope just threatened a downward slope to the hill below. 

The sun was just rising to east, casting his curls copper under his orange touch. He was bundled in only a thick blanket, his feet – like all Hobbit’s – bare even in the snow, sunken deep in a manner that spoke that he had been there for some time. After a moment of hesitation, Thorin joined him, snow crackling loudly underneath his steps. The lad’s cheeks and nose were pinked, but he did not shake from the cold and from where he stood, Thorin could see that blanket was woolen and lined with fur. Still…

“Are you warm enough?” Thorin asked, tagging a barely remembered ‘sir’ on the end, as he had seen the Hobbits do when speaking to their Thain. The boy turned to look at him, blinking slowly as if he had not realized Thorin was there until that very moment.

“Yes, thank you.” Unlike most of the Hobbit’s Thorin usually encountered in his travels throughout the Shire, who bore distinctive inflections depending on which farthing they were from, the boy’s accent was clean and crisp, distinctive. Thorin let his gaze rest back over Hobbiton proper, watching as the snow glittered brilliantly under the sun's rays. “I used to hate mornings,” the boy said after a prolonged silence, “though now I wonder why. There is a silence to it that I fear I will soon miss. Please, forgive my rudeness, in the mess of the night I did not catch your name. It's Thorin, yes?”

“Aye.”

“Tell me, Mister Thorin, are my uncles and granduncles still locked up in my father’s study?”

“I believe so.”

“Oh dear, they're in a panic I'm afraid.”

“I would imagine so,” Thorin said gently, “your father has only just passed.”

A grim smile twisted the boy’s lips, a harsh set on his gentle face. “Yes, and I have only just turned twenty-three, Mister Thorin.” And Thorin nearly choked on his inhale, shocked by the tender age, “I will not reach my majority for another ten years. I am the youngest Thain in the history of the Shire and I have come into my inheritance in one of the worst times in living memory.”

Another heavy silence fell after that, one in which Thorin mused over the defeat he heard echoing in those words. “And yet, you are their Thain.”

The Thain flashed him a fleeting smile. “And yet I am their Thain. I must thank you again, Master Dwarf, for your actions last night. I'm afraid that without your timely rescue, there would be no Thain at all! If I may ask, though, what brought you to be out in the Shire?”

“My Company and I was traveling through to the Bree-lands in hope of work.”

The Thain’s head cocked to the side, watching him for a moment, before flicking back over to stare at the town proper. “Work, I see. And what kind of work do you do, Mister Thorin?”

“Smithing, mostly. Though I have been known to serve as a guard or hired sword in the past.” The lad hummed thoughtfully after that; eyes thoughtful.

“You did strike those wolves down quite skillfully.” He said after a moment, “though I suppose that traveling as you do you have seen many wolves. We've not, I'm afraid. We Hobbits are a simple folk, more skilled at throwing parties and growing the earth. It's just, you see, we've never had need for much else. Always in the past the Shire has protected us, our rivers have kept the beasts of the wilds at bay and those that it did not, the Rangers kept in check. But now the Rangers have been called further west and the Brandywine has frozen over. We can only imagine that is how the white wolves found their way in.”

“Begging your pardon, sir.” A quiet voice interrupted, the Bounder from before standing a few paces behind him. He bowed his head quickly when the boy turned to look at him. “You’re wanted in the office, sir.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you, Ted. Good morning, Master Dwarf. Please, remain in Bag End as long as you need. It's the least I can do.” The boy turned to leave, pausing mid-step to glance at him curiously. “Tell me, Mister Thorin. How much does your Company’s swords cost?”

“It would depend on the length of the contract.”

The Thain nodded slowly, more seemingly to himself than Thorin. “I see. Perhaps work for you can be found here, within the Shire itself. If that would be an idea you’re amendable with?”

Thorin felt his lips curl up slightly. “Aye, I believe I would.”


	2. The Young Thain, Part 2

Afternoon found Thorin’s company still at Bag End, though the nature of their stay had changed somewhat. After the noon meal, Thorin had found himself called into the closed room he’d passed by earlier. It was an office, done in heavy wood paneling and shades of greens and blues. A simple, yet elegantly carved desk sat in the center of it, with a high back chair with emerald velvet inlayed cushions sat on one side of it.

Woolen plaid drapes hung on either side of the numerous large, circular windows that dotted one side, the other side taken up almost completely by a large fireplace. Above it hung a masterly crafted tapestry portraying a map of the Shire in incredible detail. The remaining two walls were covered with floor to ceiling bookcases, displaying a different type of wealth in the thick bound scrolls and books contained there. A plush rug was laid underneath it all, nearly the size of the entire room, with the visage of a badger rampant woven in its center. A silver chandelier hung in the center of the room, its simpleness belying the skill that it was made with, and the candles that burned low in it provided the room with ample light.

There was a low, round table in the middle of the room, upon which a map was laid out. Four Hobbits sat around it on backless stools, their faces various emotions. The Thain rose from his desk as Thorin entered, giving him a small smile, a soft ‘good afternoon,’ and a handshake. “Mister Thorin, may I introduce my council.” Bilbo voice was formal, tone almost clipped and strained, though utterly polite, and Thorin wondered just what they’d been discussing before he’d been summoned. “You’ve already met my cousin, Fortinbras the Second, Master of the Tooklands. This is Gorba – Gorbadoc Brandybuck, my uncle, and Master of the Bucklands. And this is Mister Willy Whitfoot, Mayor of Michel Delving.”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thorin offered with a low bow, “at your service.”

The Hobbits exchanged looks and Thorin swore he could see Bilbo roll his eyes from a side glance, but before the lad could continue on there was a gentle clearing of a throat. “And do I not warrant an introduction, grandson?”

Bilbo blushed, the faintest hint of pink dusting across his cheeks. “Of course, grandmother. Mister Thorin, my grandmother, Laura Baggins, Thain-mother of the Shire.”

The woman was easily the eldest Hobbit Thorin had ever seen, sitting closest to the fire and with a thick blanket over her lap. She wore a shawl over her shoulders that matched the tartan that adorned the drapes, her white curls bound back tightly in a snood. She looked exhausted and worn, though if the Thain-mother was anything like a Queen mother was, she had a right to, with her son only hours dead.

“Just Mistress Baggins, now my dear.” She corrected gravely, and a silence that was thick and heavy with restrained grief fell across the room, “the Thain-mother is your own dear mama, bless her soul.” It had not escaped notice to Thorin that Bilbo seemed without either parent and though he knew not how, he had assumed that his mother must also be dead given her absence. Still, the Dwarf felt pity grow at the thought of being orphaned so young. Thorin bowed lowest to her, hand tucking behind his back. Mistress Baggins chuckled at that, setting the teacup in her hands down on a nearby table. “Come closer, Master Dwarf, I fear my eyesight isn’t quite what it used to be.”

Thorin obeyed, watching as the Hobbit woman craned her head up to watch him. Her eyes were milky with age, her face wrinkled and drawn, and their was an air of fragility around her.

“My grandson tells me we owe you quite a debt, my boy.” Mistress Baggins said softly, “and you have my thanks for it. Without your quick thinking I may have lost my dear boy as well.”

“It was nothing, any would do the same in such a position.” Thorin said quietly, fighting a strange urge to fiddle with his hands. He was Thorin Oakenshield, Prince of Erebor, and yet this tiny woman made him feel almost bashful. Perhaps it was because she reminded him of his own grandmother, Freiða. Perhaps it was because she had once been a queen and this was the way of all queens. Regardless of why, Thorin found himself standing straighter under her gaze.

Mistress Baggins hummed thoughtfully. “Modest. Or perhaps you believe having the debt of a Hobbit no great feat to brag of.”

“Grandmother,” the Thain started, voice weary, but she brushed him off with a wave of her hand.

“I assure you, Master Dwarf, that having the Baggins clan of the Shire owe you a debt is quite a boon.”

“I had not assumed any less.” Thorin said quietly, though he did not really mean the words. He could see very little that Hobbits could offer his people that would be helpful, outside of work. Mistress Baggins seemed to sense his lie.

She tilted her head to side, thoughtful. “Do you know why we have called you here, Mister Thorin?”

“No, Mistress.”

“My grandson says you and your Dwarves are quite a force to behold. You drove off those wolves with ease. Is that true?”

“We have fought wolves before.” Thorin answered truthfully, for wolves – while dangerous – were child’s play for a people that had to carve their living out of the wilds.

“I see.” There was a judgement there, hidden in her voice, but Thorin could not tell if that boded well for him and his company or not. The Thain appeared by their side, refilling the Mistress’ cup of tea before setting the teapot down on the table next to her.

“I would like to offer you and your men a job, Mister Thorin.” Bilbo said quietly, gesturing towards the map. Thorin gave a nod to Mistress Baggins before joining him before the table. “While the Shire as a whole is a monarchy, we do possess a ruling counsel consisting of the Mayor Michel Delving, the Master of Buckland, the Master of Tookland and, of course, the Thain. My father’s death,” there was only the barest of stumbled on the word, though Bilbo’s face was clearly distraught, “has gathered them here tonight, and it is has also given me a chance to propose the matter of your employment. They have agreed to a set of terms, if you are interested of course.”

Thorin rose an eyebrow. “What manner of employment?”

The Thain looked down at the map, lips twisted in thought. “Guardsmen, mostly. Though a smith or two would not go astray at the moment. The Shire is composed of four farthings; the East, the West, The North, and the South. Normally we have very little issues bounding the bounds – ah, that is, policing our own borders. At the most we deal with the odd Big Folk or – do pardon me – dwarves who may be trespassing or loitering, petty theft or accidents, and occasional the rare animal attack. As you’ve witnessed for yourself, this winter has proven to be an exception. Normally there are four Sheriffs, one for each fathering, who act as captains of Watch proper. The Watch itself consists of eight Bounders per farthing for a total of thirty-two. However, our numbers are grievously less than that.”

The boy paused, looking quite sad.

“Many of our Bounders have given their lives in the last month, when the wolf attacks truly began. We Hobbits are a gentle race, Master Dwarf, and we rarely face outside threats. We had thought to seek out Gandalf, to see if the Wizard may know of any help we could attain, but he has been almost impossible to track down. Listed below is the number of Dwarves we are requesting, as well as the pay they shall receive. This is, of course, negotiable to some extent. We have enough lodging for your people should they agree, among respectable families. And all those who have agreed to quarter your Company will be provided a salary from the Thainship to ensure they can afford to proper feed everyone. Ah, Willy, if you would – thank you.”

Bilbo was handed a piece of parchment, which he then passed over to Thorin. The Dwarf read through it, feeling his lips twitch in surprise. The amount of money they were offering was no small amount and the number of Dwarves nearly twenty-one. The job offer was solid and not one that Thorin could pass up. In addition, there was to be a bounty given for every wolf corpse brought in of no small amount. Thorin took his time going over the paper, ensuring that they believed he was giving it more than an immediate acceptance. Just because he was desperate did not mean they had to know it. He gave his assent, negotiating the price up (he was a Dwarf, after all) but not by terribly much. The Hobbits must truly be desperate themselves, because they agreed to the price hitch almost at once. And then, to his utter surprise, they sweetened the deal by even further.

“If your men have families, we would welcome them.” Fortinbras said, shrugging at the surprise that Thorin looked at him with. “If this proves to be another fell winter, you and your Dwarves may be here for some time.”

“We Hobbits are quite family oriented,” the Thain explained with a small smile, seeming amused at Thorin’s stunned expression, “to separate a family is somewhat of a taboo here in the Shire.”

“Here, here.” The Mayor agreed, lighting his pipe. “Though any that come may need extra support to ensure they are fed.”

“Your men can hunt, of course.” Bilbo was quick to offer, shooting a disapproving look at the other Hobbit, “though we ask they share any excess with their Hobbit hosts. Do we have an agreement, Master Dwaf?”

“Aye,” Thorin said, accepting the offered hand. “I would need some time to send for the additional Dwarves – we would loose two of our number for at least four weeks for the travel. But those of us that remain behind could begin immediately. I also cannot ensure any families may come, our women folk and children rarely travel.”

“Of course, I understand.” Bilbo said, looking utterly relieved. He bent over the map once more. “Shall we discuss placements, then? I was thinking of placing you in the Bucklands, near where the wolves have been crossing the most. It’s a dangerous posting, but-”

“Mister Thorin will be remaining in Bag End.” Mistress Baggins interrupted.

The lad started, eyes wide. “Grandmother-”

“I’m afraid its not up for discussion, sir.” Mayor Whitfoot said, voice quiet. “Along with another of your company, Master Dwarf.”

“But,” Bilbo voice was high pitched, distraught, “the wolves are the worst in Buckland. They require aide – strong aide – immediately!”

Thorin found himself flattered at the roundabout praise, despite himself.

Gorbadoc sighed, placing a calming hand on his started nephew’s shoulder. “And we’ll be sure they get it, laddie. But it’s the only option.”

Fortinbras made a gruff agreement. “You spend too much time out and about as it is. While I admired your father’s drive to see to the settlements and farmlands – and your own to continue it – the travel takes you too far outside of the cities. And now the wolves have been spotted even on the fringes of Michel Delving and Hobbiton! No, lad, best you stay inside.”

The Thain’s expression harden, a queer look on a face so young and tender, but his eyes flashed brilliantly with anger. “No.”

Gorbadoc let out another sigh. “Bilbo–”

“No.” Bilbo repeated.

“Please, sir, see reason.” Willy Whitfoot argued, “We can’t afford to lose you, sir, not so soon after your father. The death of the Thain will be a harsh blow to the Shire as it is. It’s the only option, you must remain in Bag End until this winter ends.”

“And I said no.”

“Nephew,” Gorbadoc admonished, expression stern, “you have a council for a reason, we are here to guide you. I have been making these decisions for a long time, as has Fortinbras, and Willy has a good ten years of experience as Mayor. Please head the advice of your elders.” 

The Thain pushed off the table, standing completely straight as if his spine was suddenly mithril. “I am aware,” he said slowly, his voice hard and razor sharp, “of my youth. Just as I am aware that you’re my council, but need I remind you that I am your Thain?”

The silence that fell around the room was instant and Thorin marveled at it, watching with strange sense of approval as Bilbo glared each Hobbit until they broke his furious gaze.

“I refuse to remain hidden away while my people suffer. We tell them to go about their daily lives, to see to the land and their livestock, to continue to trade and travel to our markets, but I am to hide away? No, it is not an option.” Bilbo’s voice was steadier now, level. “You wish for me to have Dwarven guards, then I will have Dwarven guards. Mister Thorin, please chose the second-best warrior among your group to yourself. You will both remain here, by my side.”

Thorin nodded his assent.

“Now, that’s settled.” Bilbo said, brushing his hands together as if to rid them of dirt. “I believe its time we had a spot to eat. Please, head towards the dining room. I will join you shortly. Ah, Mister Thorin, will you remain for a moment?”

As soon as the group left the room, Mistress Baggins leaning heavily on Gorbadoc’s arm to do so, Bilbo’s form seemed to deflate. In fact, the very moment the door shut he seemed to collapse in on himself, moving to lean heavily upon the fireplace mantel.

“I’m terribly sorry about that.” The boy said after a moment, a hand coming up to rub at his forehead in frustration.

“For what?” Thorin asked, moving closer to join the Thain by the fireplace.

“For…that.” Bilbo said, gesturing about. “It’s terribly rude of us to quarrel so in front of you.”

Quarrel? Is that what the lad thought that was? He shrugged the concern away. “Think nothing of it.”

And he meant that, truly. That was hardly a disagreement in Dwarven terms, far tamer than anything that Thorin had ever witnessed in the courts of Erebor. He snorted at the thought, remember a particularly violent brawl that had erupted in the last few months before the dragon had come. His father had sported twin black eyes from it – though those who’d challenged him at suffered worse. Hobbits were strange creatures indeed; they seemed almost obsessed with propriety, enough so that Thorin had warned his company to be on their best behavior. Though he had not foreseen how generous the employment contract had come to be, their conversation this morning had all but promised one coming, and Thorin would not risk alienating gold by his company’s brashness.

“Still, I apologize you had to see that. I’m sure grandmother is boxing their ears as it is.” The Thain let out a sigh. “Do you believe I am being too hasty? Am I ignoring their concerns?”

Thorin eyed the boy thoughtfully. “Why ask me?”

Bilbo colored, bringing a hand up to rub at his nose. “I spoke with one of your companions this morning, Víli. He may have mentioned that you are a chieftain of a sort among your people.”

“Of a sort.” Thorin agreed, amused. “I understand your advisers' concerns; I think it would be wise of you to remember that your position.”

“I am aware,” Bilbo said, voice dry. “I have been Thain-in-waiting from the moment I was born. I know what is expected of me.”

Thorin was silent for a moment, arms curling across his chest in thought. “You may have been aware, but living it is another matter entirely. You must understand, truly understand, what your advisers are saying to you.” The Thain jerked up to stare at him in surprise. Thorin met his questioning eyes steadily. “From the moment your father’s breath stopped, you ceased to be Bilbo Baggins; your life is no longer your own. You now stand as the living embodiment of your people – you must seek not just for their safety and security, but you must safeguard their hopes and dreams. As long as you live, it matters not what strains and hardships they endure, because _you_ endure. The Shire endures.”

Bilbo’s eyes had grown very large and very solemn, and if there was a shake to his hands, Thorin kindly ignored it. Despite the clear fear he had caused, Thorin did not break their stare, willing the young lad to understand the gravitas of his words.

“Do you understand now your advisers concerns now, lad? Do you understand why they wish you safe?”

“…yes.” The Thain voice was nearly a whisper, eyes finally breaking away to stare into the fire. “I…I do not know if I am ready for this, truly.”

He seemed very small standing there, despite the maturity of his clothing and their finery, small and lost. Thorin felt something in him soften at the sight. He reached out, clasping the lad’s shoulder in a firm grip. “You will find your way.”

Those wide eyes turn to stare at him, glossy and doubtful. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

And until he did, Thorin would keep him safe.


End file.
